


Golddigger

by LizzyGal



Series: Moments of Clarity [1]
Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, Face Slapping, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Ransom Drysdale's Sweater, Ransom has a plan, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unprotected Sex, jealous ransom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23926720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyGal/pseuds/LizzyGal
Summary: Ransom Drysdale is out of jail, working as a butler for a young wealthy widow, and of course, plotting.Hugh Ransom Drysdale always ends up on his feet. How could he not take advantage of his current work situation? How could a moment of clarity not come out of such an opportunity?Has Ransom met his match though? Could Ransom have met someone just as horrible as him?Which one of them is, the true golddigger?::Warnings for slapping, fighting and a significant amount of profanity::
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Reader
Series: Moments of Clarity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735510
Comments: 18
Kudos: 123





	Golddigger

Ransom hated everything about you.

Ransom hated you. He hated that you had accidentally come into your fortune. He hated that you’d given him a job as the butler of your household. Ransom loathed your sisters. Ransom despised your other staff and frequently fired, or chased away old employees, new employees and future employees.

Ransom despised the pictures of your late, elderly husband, that you had all over your fucking luxury penthouse apartment in Boston.

Most of all, Ransom absolutely despised your cavalier attitude towards the wealth you’d inherited.

You were a Golddigger and not even a good one.

One of these days, he was going to show you.

Ransom wasn’t made to serve. He wasn’t put on this earth to run a household. Especially not one that belonged to a Golddigger who didn’t even have the audacity to live high on the hog. He wasn’t sure what your problem was, but every time he saw you, he just fought the urge to do something stupid.

He wasn’t going back to jail. 

His parents had gotten him a good enough lawyer, that he hardly had to serve any time with his plea deal. He’d be on parole for-fucking-ever it seemed though.

Getting locked up wasn’t for him though.

If he had to do time being your butler till he came across better things, so be it. He was made for better things. Things would change for him. Things would get better. He kept an eye out for any opportunity, any weakness, any one chance.

Until then, he found himself wearing a suit from Hugo Boss. One that he’d bought from the expense account to test the waters. Would you say anything? Would you make him bring it back? You never said anything. You put up with more shit than his own mother would tolerate. It made him wonder if you genuinely could care less, or if you were just used to shutting up and taking whatever people fed you.

That very morning, he dropped a plate of frozen waffles in front of you, on the table in your formal dining room and glared at you, just daring you to complain, to say something, to fire him. He waited for your response, half ready to fight with you and half wondering out of a genuine curiosity. 

You still could not believe you hired the asshole.

He was rude, surly, far too egotistical for someone out on probation, but you were doing his mother a favor. Granted, he ran your household with the efficiency of a submarine commander. But at what cost?

In a floral robe and fuzzy socks, having just rolled out of bed, you glanced up at the man with a mild look on your face.

You’d been out late last night at a fundraiser for the hospital one of your sisters worked at. Was it too much to ask for, for some breakfast? Lunch? Or whatever? You had no idea what time it was to be honest. The only reason you were out of bed, was because your sister had called to ask if you could pick up your nephews and watch them overnight.

So, it was daytime.

You decided to go with noon-thirty.

“Your chef quit yesterday,” Ransom told you, as if daring you to complain.

You looked back at the waffles and picked one up. 

It was still frozen.

You weren’t about to complain. You’d had worse in your pre-married life. You wondered if Ransom hadn’t cooked them out of spite, or because he was unfamiliar with the workings of the toaster, or microwave. 

“Did you put out an ad for a new one?” 

You weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer, as you sank back into your chair to rub the bridge of your nose. Pizza delivery for dinner it was.

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot,” Ransom hissed at you from where he stood to your left. “I haven’t interviewed one I like. Clearly when we let you pick them, they’re useless.”

Your chef had been a retired Michelin Star restaurateur. Naturally, you’d assumed he could handle your butler. 

Apparently not.

Another one bit the dust it seemed.

Which left you to rolling your eyes, debating on whether you wanted to get dressed to go out and find sustenance. Or if you wanted to go heat up your own breakfast. And while that was the easiest solution, it wasn’t the point. You weren’t paying Ransom good money to throw frozen waffles at you. “How long did he last? Didn’t I just hire him?”

Four days.

You knew he had lasted four days. Ransom knew he’d lasted four days. 

Your eyes wandered up to the blown glass chandelier that hung over your dining room table, which could and had seated two dozen when Chip was alive. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Ransom. You might hurt him. So it was best not to look at that face, don’t react, just let his words roll off of you, because he made your life so much easier.

You could ask Ransom to make calls for various fundraisers, or events, and he’d get whatever you needed done. Ransom knew who to contact for what, why, when and where in the greater New England area.

“How the hell should I know? I’ll tell you one thing though…”

You lifted your head so he knew you were paying attention.

“…whoever I hire will damn well be just as experienced and possess the ability to follow a simple fucking instruction, without backtalk.”

To which you nodded.

That pretty much solved the why, on what led to your most recent staff members hasty exit from your employment.

Since hiring the Drysdale, you had a revolving door of household staff. In fact, everyone but your housekeeper was gone, and that was only because Chip had hired her and you couldn’t fire her, according to his Will. Which was fine with you. You had grown to enjoy the sounds of her and Ransom fighting like cats and dogs. On more than one occasion, he’d demanded to see Chip’s Will just to make sure.

However, since the jackass had come to work for you, there had been a decrease in theft, which proved your sister right. Someone had been stealing art from your spacious penthouse. Unfortunately, Ransom had chased them all away, so you never got to figure out who was stealing from your vast collection. Nor did new employees get the chance to steal, they were never around long enough.

“If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” he snarled at your back, irritated that he couldn’t even get a reaction from you.

With a wave of your hand, you decided you wanted a bagel.

“Fine,” you sighed, “Oh…the boys are spending the night so feel free to take it off.”

You knew he wouldn’t take the news well.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

And there it was. No longer staring at the bright colors on your chandelier, you glanced backwards and down. Seeing a pair of Italian leather loafers, which, you knew for a fact, he spent damn near eleven hundred dollars on from the expense household account. Your most reliable sister, who ran Chip’s business had called you as soon as the charge hit the account. 

Not that you’d tell Ransom, but you found it amusing.

His utter audacity.

You had married Chip, nursed him through his final years, grown to love the eighty-three-year old lifelong bachelor. Still, you felt weird spending his, your, money at times. 

“Nope. Take the night off. I’m sure you have someone else in the greater Boston area you can torment for twelve hours. It’s been months since you’ve been out terrorizing the villagers. You should be about due for your sacrificial virgin.”

When he stormed out and slammed the dining room door behind him, fists clenched, jaw tight, you were smirking.

You were also getting hungry, which meant you had to go get dressed and leave the building to go find food. You weren’t about to ask the housekeeper and half of Boston refused to deliver to your apartment now. You didn’t want the other half to decide they didn’t want to deal with Ransom.

****

About a month after Ransom had started working for you, he installed an app on his phone so he could track your whereabouts.

Now he mainly used it so he could track you down.

Keeping tabs on you was like herding cats.

If you weren’t home, you were off doing something disgustingly philanthropic. It was literally how you spent most of your time. It was confounding. You weren’t even that nice of a person. He’d heard you speak about most of the charity matrons and socialites in Boston and beyond to your assorted sisters, when you thought he wasn’t listening, or paying close enough to hear.

Like your little remark that morning.

Most the time you didn’t give him enough of a reaction for him to do a damn thing with. But other times, a small amount of the time, Ransom would get a hint of something like a spark, a little flicker of a flame. One that he wanted to pour gasoline on to see just what would happen, for shits and giggles mostly.

If he didn’t know better, he would have said you had been deeply in love with your elderly husband, who you married when you were just barely old enough to drink.

You didn’t date. You were on the gossip pages enough for being a Golddigger, so he would have for sure known if you had a boyfriend. Yet, you never brought anyone home, nor did you ever go out with anyone. It was bizarre. Ransom planned to chase off anyone showing a remote interest in you. He wasn’t subjecting himself to being your butler out of the goodness of his black heart.

Ransom had worked for you for over a year. 

No-one was going to come in and get their hands on your money on his watch.

He’d tried numerous times to crack the nut that was you. Thus far he’d been unsuccessful, but he was going to get back on his feet, he had a moment of clarity when he took the job with you.

Which was how he found himself going downstairs, where your phone had been for the better part of forty minutes.

Ransom had a suspicion of what was holding you up. 

You should have been back now from the bagel shop. He’d watched your phone end up there. He knew you had a conference call with a charity about some event you were hosting soon. You wouldn’t intentionally miss that. For some reason unknown to him, you threw yourself into do-gooding with a fake sense of joy and dedication that he was intimately familiar. Ransom knew a liar when he saw one.

Upon stepping out of the elevator down on the lobby floor, his calculating eyes scanned the bustling space for any sign of you with laser guided precision focus…

…until he found you.

There you were, mail in hand, acting interested in whatever that asshat from 3B was going on about again.

God Ransom hated him too.

If that son of a bitch thought he could just cozy up to you, win you over with compliments and a few dinner dates? Mister 3B clearly did not know how much work Ransom had already invested in you.

If anyone was going to be fucking the young widow of Charles ‘Chip’ Rosenberg III, it was going to be Ransom.

It sure as hell wasn’t going to be Mister ‘I’m in touch with my emotions and want to bond’ in 3B.

So far Ransom had managed to ruin three attempted dates by the man. One time when he knew you two would be at the same gala, he called in a bomb threat. He wasn’t playing games. Ransom was in it for the long haul. 

Soundly, Ransom strolled on over to the two of you. Noticing that you had that same look on your face you had when your younger sister was explaining how in love she was with whatever loser she was most frequently dating. Or when your eight-year-old nephew was explaining exactly why he could not go to school on the same day he had a math test, using the eight amendment in his argument.

Once he was close enough to hear whatever it was 3B was going about, Ransom didn’t even try to be polite or cordial.

You were so glad to see Ransom. You could have dropped to your knees and wept at his feet. Ok, so sure, that would have just given him an even bigger ego. But oh lord Jesus, he in 3B hadn’t shut-up about his new yacht. Not since he’d cornered you in the mail room. You’d made it out if only by a few feet.

But now, now you were surely free.

You knew for a fact Ransom despised Mister 3B and had never been happier to see him. Except maybe that time Mister 3B was in the same elevator with you.

Ransom approached and looked over 3B from head to toe. From his boat shoes and khakis, to his crisp polo, big blue eyes and golden curls. Then Ransom made a face, as if he’d eaten something particularly disgusting and looked at you. “That woman from the latest charity is on the phone.”

Clearly your neighbor had been looked over, judged and determined unworthy.

Ransom’s utter disapproval, hostility and disgust was the hottest thing ever.

Now you knew that was a damn lie about the charity. You had half an hour before your conference call. But you didn’t care. 

Mister 3B, who’s name you really should have known, but never really cared to remember, was nice enough. He was clearly interested in you. But you didn’t find him at all delightful. He didn’t amuse you. You didn’t sit around at meetings, or with your family, thinking up new and amusing ways to torment him.

You had a thing.

Your thing kept you from dating.

Your sisters encouraged you to date. It’d been years since your beloved Chip had passed tragically, at eighty-seven, from a shark diving accident. No one could believe he went out from an aortic aneurysm. 

He’d lived a good life. You’d spent his last few years pushing him around in his wheelchair, making rude and or catty remarks about people, places and things in your travels. 

Chip was a mean and black hearted, vile old man. It was like he was the other part of you. Oh how the two of you enjoyed your last river cruise of Europe. Throwing fruit at passing things off your balcony, ruining dinners with snide remarks at passengers that both of you knew would end up causing fights, thinking up horrible things for Chip to shout on tours that always made tour guides turn red with anger or embarrassment. The two of you had so much fun together. He really was taken too soon.

So what the hell could you want with Homeslice in 3B? 

Jack? Jason? Or was it Jesse?

You could not remember.

You could not go out with this man. You would wind up just smiling and nodding like always. With Chip, you could say whatever the hell you wanted and he’d laugh, loving your little mean streak, that little dark snarky side of you. Salty and sassy was what the kids called it these days.

And then, came the stroke of death every time you found someone amusing. Eventually it led to sex. And before you knew it, the guys would run away screaming. 

It just wasn’t worth it anymore.

Jarrod…maybe, no, Josh…it could have been Josh, regardless, you highly doubted this manchild who wanted to take you on his yacht, which you weren’t buying for one hot minute, wanted to take you out sailing for no other purposes other than to enjoy your company. 

“I really have to run. I’ll see you around…”

Timothy, from 3B, smiled tightly, oh how he hated your butler. Who looked familiar for some reason. “Ok,” he managed. “But at least promise me you’ll think about what I said? Charles wouldn’t want you to mourn his death forever. He’d want you to be happy. It’s been several years.”

Clearly Mister 3B had never met your late husband. Or he would have known what a nasty obnoxious asshole your husband had been in life.

God you missed that man.

You had no one to fight with anymore. No one to make catty remarks about people with, or someone to cause fights with at parties or social gatherings. When you took your family on a cruise last summer, they wanted to go and do things and you had to go parasailing, zip-lining and leave the ship daily. It was exhausting and no one would be mean with you. Then, when you tried to have a steamy summer fling with one of the band members, he ran out of your room screaming and you wound up having to pay him off to keep quiet too.

You suspected that 3B would be too pricy to pay off.

Just as you turned, you heard your neighbor remark, “You should have your butler send a text when he needs to contact you. Mine just sends texts whenever I have to be reached.”

In fact, you stopped when you heard those words.

Not because you were about to take advice from a spoiled rotten trust fund baby. But because his equal was mere feet away and you knew something absolutely cutting would come from Drysdale’s mouth.

“Suck a dick, Timmy.”

And there it was, that warm feeling in your tummy. Ransom could really give you the good stuff.

There was a reason you kept him around. Not just because he looked really good in the clothes he wore.

You were on Cloud Nine all the way over to the elevator and even when the doors closed. Even when Ransom was still seething and the elevator attendant actively ignored him. As Ransom had made an enemy of him too.

“He’s wrong…” came out of your mouth when the elevator went up.

Ransom looked at you in the mirrored doors from where he stood beside you. 

Jeez he smelled so good. He’d probably bought an outrageously expensive cologne with your money. Normally the thought made you giggle. 

“Chip would never have wanted me to go sailing with that douche-nozzle. Chip would have hated him.”

Ransom laughed loudly, sharply.

“Want to hear a secret?”

“Sure,” was Ransom’s response.

You could see the supple curve of his mouth, the smooth skin of his face in the mirror and were curious what he’d feel like between your thighs. For such a hellion you wondered what he was like in bed. Ransom had never hit on you. He’d never even seemed to be interested in you in that way. 

“Before Chip made out his final will, I dared him to put in that part where I’d lose my money if I ever remarried. I told him he didn’t have the balls to do it.”

Ransom looked your way.

You looked his way.

And he laughed again, not because it was funny or because Chip backed down from your challenge, but because you would have the gall to dare your elderly husband to do it. Now you could never get remarried without losing all your millions.

***

It was around nine that night when you got back from pizza and a movie with your nephews. Closer to tenish by the time you got the boys bathed, and another half hour passed before you had them tucked into their bunk beds.

By the time eleven rolled around you were in your bed, freshly showered, wet red nail polish on your toes and a new episode of Snapped on. From bed you watched the show and shook your head at moments of disbelief, while snacking on Goldfish crackers belonging to your nephews.

It was fine, they wouldn’t mind.

They’d want you to have sustenance while watching the TV mounted to your wall.

Eventually a slamming door let you know Ransom had returned. 

Yet, you made no move to get out of bed.

What could you say? It was a particularly fascinating episode of Snapped. You made a mental note, to one day visit the fine state of Louisiana, right around the time your bedroom door whipped open and Ransom stormed in.

“Where the hell is your phone?”

He had something of a tone.

This was going to take a while. So you reached over the vast expanse of your bed to grab your TV remote, paused the show, as you could not miss a second of that particular episode and then you turned your attention to Ransom. Just as he shut your door and trembled in fury. In a pair of jeans that made those long legs his look like a masterpiece and a grey sweater you wanted to steal.

Now what had he asked?

Ransom stomped over to your dresser where your purse rested, picked it up, dumped it’s contents out on said dresser.

Oh right, your phone.

Vaguely you gestured at your door, “Somewhere in the apartment. Why?”

“Because I was trying to get in touch with you all fucking night long!”

Your eyebrows went up.

Well wasn’t he in a mood? 

There was a distinct possibility, that Ransom would provide you with more entertainment than anything on TV. 

Dare you start poking?

You could have been civil, professional even.

But you were bored.

“Why? You have the night off. Shouldn’t you be out finding new and inventive ways to torment your family and the masses?”

Poke. Poke.

“I never asked for the night off,” he snarled at you.

A couple more Goldfish went in your mouth.

Ransom lived in your Penthouse. He had his own room clear on the other side by your home gym. Usually he spent his late nights over there, doing God only knew what and left you in peace. This was a pleasant surprise.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t meet anyone that I’d like to terrorize in the peace of my own home. You’re position as number one pain in my ass is still secure.”

Poke. Poke. 

Ransom threw your purse on the floor. “Say that again! I fucking dare you.”

Another couple Goldfish sailed into your mouth. 

Which was unfortunate, because now you were getting thirsty. Now where was that bottle of water you brought into your bedroom with you? You looked around for the distinctive bottle on your massive bed. Maybe it got lost in the pillows?

“You track my phone? Right? I’m assuming that’s why you’re all pissy I forgot it? Or are you monitoring my text messages to chase off any potential fresh meat for me to play with?”

Monitor your messages? Ransom was actually a little disappointed in himself for not thinking of that before you brought it up. That would make it much easier to go through your text messages, instead of having to get into your phone physically to scroll through them in person. Of course, he planned on remedying his lapse in planning later.

“Or did you actually have something of importance to share with me?”

Ah ha! 

There was your Fiji Water. Under your pillows.

You grabbed it, popped the cap and took a few swings to hydrate while awaiting his response.

It couldn’t have infuriated him more.

You and that big stupid portrait of the snowy haired Chip, scowling down at him from over your bed. Watching him, judging him, wrapped in a smoking jacket with his family monogram on the chest. The urge to flip off that painting was strong. He stormed right over to the end of your bed and grabbed your ankle, yanking you down the vast expanse of bed. Water spilled, crackers went everywhere, your remote tumbled off the bed onto the hardwood floor.

Your heartbeat kicked up.

He’d put his hands on you. For the first time ever, Ransom had put his hands on you and while it was only a yank down your bed, you found yourself growing excited.

This was bad.

This was so bad.

This was how things wound up with your playthings running out of the room screaming, in assorted states of undress, demanding recompense for emotional distress and in two cases, assault. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you dammit!”

So you looked up at him.

You gave him your full attention. Eyebrow raised as he threw your ankle down, broad chest heaving as his face grew even more livid. Ransom grabbed your Hard Rock Café t-shirt and yanked you into an upright seated position. If he kept this up, you were so giving him a raise.

Now you could have said something. You probably should have, what with boundaries and all. 

Using your words would have been the appropriate, professional and adult thing to do and for God’s sake, you were thirty. Shouldn’t you act like it? That seemed to be the general consensus among your sisters.

What did you do?

You hit him.

You didn’t just slap Hugh Ransom Drysdale. Oh no, you straight up pimp-slapped him with the back of your hand, hard enough to make his head snap back. The back of your hand burnt almost immediately and you just knew you’d left a mark on that perfect fucking face.

Ransom took a step back. Stunned, hand coming up to touch his face as you slid from the bed.

Eager, excited, in the mood to paw at him like a cat would a wounded mouse.

You couldn’t help yourself now. Not now. Not when he looked at you in burning rage instead of fear, or disgust, like the others. 

Before you said a word, Ransom picked up on the switch in you.

Here was his mouthy, snarky employer, who inquired if he was out to torment villagers that morning. He watched you look up at him as his face burnt with the fire of the sun from your hand.

“I’m looking at you Ransom! What do you have for me? What is it? You have my attention!”

You snapped your fingers at him and he saw red.

“I ran into Timmy in the elevator! He said he was out with you on a date tonight.”

You snorted and not just at the mention of 3B’s name.

“Are you saying he was lying,” he seethed, each word dripping with venom. Telling you that this would indeed be far more entertaining than Snapped.

Perhaps you’d not paid enough attention to your waspish butler? He seemed far too interested in Mister 3B’s attentions, which you unfortunately had to endure for most the night.

It’d been downright tedious.

A loud cackle came from you in response, like from an evil old witch. “That idiot wishes. He probably followed me when I took the boys out for dinner. All he got was a two-hour long discussion about whether or not Superman could take Batman in a fight. Then I sat the boys between us at the movie. Even if I was looking for a boyfriend, which I am not, he doesn’t have what it takes to properly stimulate and satisfy me with conversation, forget in the motherfucking bedroom.”

It was then that something flipped in Ransom. A moment of clarity perhaps?

All his hard work was not for naught.

He was correct in assuming Mister 3B wouldn’t know what to do with you. Not even if he had a map. Ransom though, Ransom knew exactly what to do with you and as you again waved your hand back and forth before him, snapping your fingers, he knew just the fuck what you needed.

“Is there anything else I can help you with Ransom?”

He felt his dick twitch just from the challenging look you gave him.

Was he reading you right? The last fucking thing he needed was to kiss you and it not be welcome. His probation officer already thought he was a piece of shit, used those exact words and gleefully awaited the day when he screwed up, to lock him up.

You’d already smacked him hard enough to get his total, and complete, attention for grabbing you.

Or was it from that?

“Well? Speak boy! Cat got your tongue?”

How his hatred of you just exploded in that moment, referring to him that way? Oh no, no no no. He saw crimson. Just like he did in front of that detective, that trooper and fucking Blanc. Without a theater prop knife of course. Trying to stab Marta in front of two cops, and Blanc, had not been the wisest life choice. But lucky for him, it was a retractable knife, so his kill count remained at one, or else he’d be in a god damn cage for the foreseeable future.

Ransom shoved you.

He shoved you hard.

Hard enough to send you backwards onto your bed. Flailing back, when your legs hit the footboard of the French canopy monstrosity. You just had to buy it when Chip said it was the ugliest fucking bed he’d ever seen in his life. 

Ransom was so getting a raise plus another night off, especially if this was what happened. You’d have to start leaving your phone home more too.

“Don’t you ever fucking talk to me like that again!” He shouted at you and boy were you glad that the boys had hockey tryouts at school that day. They’d been unconscious when you’d left their room. And god bless Ransom, for having the forethought to slam your bedroom door. Because when his hand grabbed your throat, it was on and you were downright giddy.

This was just what you were looking for in a relationship.

Someone to do exactly what you wanted and needed, who was perhaps a bit of a handful in the bedroom.

His hand grabbed your throat and squeezed. In his anger, it was nowhere near an effective chokehold, but just the thought he put behind it was enough. 

You hit him again.

You nailed him once more in the face with a closed fist. Hard enough to both loosen his grip, knock him aside, askew your body for a second and allow you to shove him off your bed. Landing in a heap of long legs on the floor, with a painful groan.

So maybe he’d handled that poorly.

Ransom saw stars. He’d landed hard on his side and just knew, he knew, knew for a fact he’d be in jail that night. The second his probation officer heard he’d attacked his employer in her bedroom at night, he’d drag him off to jail skipping and singing.

But then you were on him.

Which was a surprise, it was the last thing he expected and as his head cleared. Ransom was even more confused. You hadn’t fallen off the bed on him because you were touching him, grabbing his arms and hands and then…he began to realize what you were doing. By then it was too late. His hands were tied to the heavy wooden foot of your bed with what looked like a pair of panty hose.

The second Ransom bonded out of jail, he was murdering that housekeeper who couldn’t do her fucking job.

Insincere apologies began to come from his mouth, as his brain struggled to find a way out of his current situation.

“Shut up Ransom. Or I’ll gag you.”

That shut him up. Confused him too.

Clearly he had completely misunderstood everything. That much became obvious when you wiggled your way down his body, reached down and palmed him through his jeans.

Just as you suspected, he had at least a semi.

“Untie me.”

Your gaze flickered to him, as you began to yank on his sweater and the white undershirt beneath it. Thankfully, he helped lift his shoulders off the floor, so you could shove the clothing up and over his chest, his head and finally up his arms where his hands were tied to your bed. It’d been between an old pair of tights under your bed or your previously missing iron to restrain him.

Later you’d have to see what else was lost under your bed.

“Why,” you wanted to know. All while you sat back up on his waist, pushed back your curtain of hair and surveyed the stunning sight on your bedroom floor. Ransom was as broad and built as you expected, with a dusting of dark hair on his chest and leading down into his jeans, past washboard abdominals that your fingertips skimmed over.

“Why?” He was indignant. His blue eyes burned into you. “Why the hell do you think? I’m going to need both of my hands to fuck the life out of you.”

There, that was it!

Were those words too much to ask for? Was it too much to hope for a good thorough roll in the sheets? Just seeing the somewhat murderous expression on Ransom’s face as he yanked on his bindings, you knew he wasn’t going to run out on you because you were being too rough.

Did you want to untie him though?

He gave his bindings a few more sound tugs, as your hands continued to wander over his chest that was somehow just all muscle. Indeed he must have been using the home gym.

“Maybe later…if I get bored…” you assured him, palms smoothing up his pecs, your thumbs brushed over his nipples and you leaned down to sink your teeth into his side, draw your tongue along his warm skin that smelled like spicy body wash.

“You little bitch…” he hissed, his body jerked in more attempts to free himself. 

Quickly, you pulled up your hair in a messy bun with the hair tie on your wrist. “Say it again to me. But with feeling this time.”

Your entire bed jerked on the floor from his sudden movement.

The profanities that spewed forth from his lips put a wicked smile on your lips. Making you drop your head to pepper kisses down his chest, over his abdominals and when you popped the button on his jeans, his body tensed beneath you. You unzipped him and tugged on those pants and boxer-briefs. Ransom lifted his hips to help you slide his clothes down those long legs of his.

“Oh thank goodness…” you breathed.

He lifted his head to level a hostile look at you.

Unable to help yourself. 

You looked down at what was the most beautiful, and impressive dick, that you’d ever seen in your life. Thick, veiny, longer than anything you’d ever come across, oozing pre-cum from his tip and flushed red with arousal. “I’ve always wondered if you are such a pistol because you had a micro-penis. You have no idea how relieved I am.”

Ransom nearly died when you put your mouth on him.

Gasping breaths came out. Your mouth was absolute heaven and hell on him. His eyes rolled up into his head, his back arched off the floor, he ground his teeth together and then you hummed.

Dear god he had to get his hands on you.

Desperately, as your tongue swirled around his tip, he lifted his head to look closer at the pantyhose that kept his hands restrained. There were knots. Knots he couldn’t get lose. Were you in the damn Navy? You took him deeper in your mouth. Ransom gasped, hands wrapped around the bedpost, closed his eyes and started swearing again.

Those words were music to your ears.

You pulled your lips from his erection with a sound pop and then took him in one hand, as if inspecting this newly discovered part of your butler. You were fascinated to see when your hand curled around him, that your fingertips did not meet. “Do you have a condom?”

Ransom’s eyes were still closed, “I’m clean. You had me tested…remember?”

Why yes, you did remember.

To insure him, Ransom had to have a full physical.

In order for the real fun to start, you began to wiggle out of your yoga pants. “You got a condom? Cause I’m not on any birth control.”

A moment of motherfucking clarity struck. And it was only partially influenced by his aching dick. “Nope.” Random lied, just the thought of going bare inside of you, for the first time in his life, it was such a fucking turn on. Never in his life had he ever wanted to knock someone up. He never wanted a kid. 

Risking it though, the risk. Risk added to the fun.

You knew he was lying. You knew he had a condom in his wallet. You’d found his wallet once and went through it, because why the hell not?

Flinging your yoga pants elsewhere you sat down on his taut stomach, rubbed yourself on his defined abdominals, felt your arousal smear all over him. It made him crack his eyes open at you beneath those long eyelashes. “You’re a fucking liar Drysdale.”

He held your gaze.

His hands again pulled on your pantyhose. “Put a condom on me then,” he snapped.

In response to his angry words, you grabbed him in your hand. Rested your other hand square on his warm chest. “Noooo…lets risk it. Are you in the mood to gamble?”

Ransom was always in the mood to gamble. He pumped himself into your hand with a movement of his hips in response. “When I get free of these fucking pantyhose, I’m going to pin you to the damn floor and fuck you till you can’t see straight. I’m going to feed you my dick. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else…”

You elected that moment to line the tip of his erection up to you and then slide down, slid down slowly, taking inch by inch of him and then more and more, the bulbous head of him was almost painful as it sank through you. “Oh God…Oh God…Oh God…” you gasped, moaned, whined as you slowly sank down his length, taking him inch by excruciating inch. 

Blinding white hot pleasure practically took his breath away. 

Watching you sink down on his cock was the most erotic thing he’d seen in a long time. Feeling your wet heat around him, it was indescribable and he almost came right then, from the carnal bliss he felt deep down in his bones. With an upward thrust, he plowed the rest of the way into you till not a bit of space remained.

In that moment, Ransom decided that he was never ever again wearing a condom. He also was never having sex with anyone else. He would gladly suffer through monogamy just to see that surprised look on your face, as your body fought to accommodate to his size. Pain and pleasure mingled beautifully across your features.

To his horror, you began to move your pelvis against him, lift your hips. 

Ransom’s movement was limited.

This was the absolute worst. 

This was like being in an inner circle of hell.

His dick was having a grand time, but Ransom wanted more, desperately needed more. And that led him to further inspect your lingerie bindings closely, closer than anything he’d observed in recent history. Using every bit of strength he had in his muscular arms and chest, as you excruciatingly pleasured the both of you on his painfully sensitive cock, he yanked at the bindings. Pulled at them until he managed to spear a finger in the nude sheer material. Once he made a hole, it did not take long at all for him to make that hole bigger. Bigger and bigger and bigger, till he was ripping your tights apart and then, he was free.

Ok, sure, pantyhose were still knotted around his wrist, and it took him a second to shake off his shirt and sweater. Merely details in that second.

At first, you didn’t realize he was no longer tied to the bed.

At first you hardly noticed Ransom sitting up, yanking your t-shirt over your head, or his mouth on your breasts. In fact, you didn’t really notice, so lost in how much he stretched you, how amazing he felt. How if you sank down just right, you could rub your clit against his hard abdomen and rub his erection against that spot inside of you that made you tremble.

Your hands were suddenly in his dark hair, pulling his face closer against your breasts and then you realized he wasn’t tied to the bed anymore.

By then though, you were too far gone.

Without ever leaving your body, he rolled you over onto your back and roughly grabbed your wrists in his larger hand. Both your hands were pressed painfully to the floor above your head, pulling your breasts higher up, till you were like a buffet beneath him. A feast of flesh just for him.

Ransom’s pace picked up at the sight. “You feel so fucking good.” Every thrust was powerful enough to push you up the floor, pull a cry from your mouth. Every thrust ended with him fully sheathed inside of you, sac smacking into your flesh. He was merciless. His grip on your wrists painfully tight.

“Harder…” you gasped, arching beneath him, “More...”

And he gave it to you.

Without hesitation his head dipped down to take you breast in his mouth. Suck deeply on your tender flesh, torment your nipple with his tongue and teeth. All while he continued to relentlessly pound into your body so perfectly. Punishingly hard, as if to make you suffer for all the months of frustration you’d given him.

Fingers on his other hand sank into the fleshy cheek of your ass, tilting you, pulling you close, so he could angle just right, hit your clit, stroke your g-spot with every motion. Grunts came from him every time. He was desperate to hear you scream. And scream you would.

You came right before him by two heartbeats.

A strangled noise was ripped from you. Like you were a dying beast and perhaps in a way you were, you’d never climaxed so hard in your entire life. Tightly your walls clamped around him, sending him into his own orgasm, as your legs hooked around his thighs, pulled him closer so your body could spasm against him, rub into him, shatter and spiral. 

His was no less intense or violent. 

Body jerking as he came. Ransom thrust sloppily into you on instinct now, to not only prolong his pleasure, to seek that feeling of bliss and release into your wet hot body. His grip on your wrist was bruising. Perhaps he bit a smidge too hard into the soft tissue of your breast. A shout came from his lungs, before he finally collapsed against your sweaty body, slick with his own perspiration. Rope after rope of cum errupted from him into you. 

Ransom was heavy on top of you.

He’d just sort of collapsed over you, between your legs, buried so deeply inside of you that you were amazed he fit. Dark hair stuck to his forehead and your shoulder as the back of your head rested back on the floor.

Boy had that been quite good.

Truth be told, it was more than a few moments before you had regained enough of your faculties, that you could string together a coherent sentence. “Can you do that twice in one night?” Not that you could move just yet. Planning ahead was never a bad thing though.

“Fuck yes,” came from somewhere around the region of your shoulder, followed by, “Give me…ten minutes.”

One of your hands curled limply above your head. Your other however, it sank down into Ransom’s damp hair, slowly sinking in, sliding through and tugging, nails scraping along his scalp. 

You could wait ten minutes.

You could not wait ten minutes to torment him. 

“Fine…if you promise not to go easy on me…I might not tie you to the bed.”

He bit you again.

***

As usual, Ransom was up bright and early, a few minutes before his alarm.

He left you in bed, where you slept soundly for the first time that night. Masculine pride filling him at the sight. Your bed looked like a hurricane had hit. You looked like you’d been in the center of that storm and after pulling on his jeans and undershirt, he grabbed the rest of his clothes. On his way out of your bedroom, he flipped off the portrait of Chip up on your wall.

Because he didn’t want any surprises, he peeked in on your nephews.

The last fucking thing he wanted was an eight-year-old peeking in his bathroom while he showered, demanding to know where the cereal was located, again. 

Both boys were in their beds asleep.

Since it was Saturday, he didn’t put on his weekday suit, instead opting for a pair of dark slacks and grey sweater after his shower. 

Ransom didn’t realize what a good mood he was in, until one of your nephews poked their head into his bedroom an hour or so later, inquiring if they could use the stove to make breakfast. Because Auntie was not giving them an answer and was probably dead.

Amused at that mental image, Ransom closed his laptop, halfway through a scathing email to his father. Without a single profanity, he went with your nephew off to the kitchen to whip up breakfast.

The lack of profanity didn’t last too long.

Still, seeing your ten-year-old nephew picking broken egg shells out of a mixing bowl didn’t piss him off, per Ransom’s usual. Plus it wasn’t like he had to clean the kitchen.

He was most definitely going to have to start fucking the fight right out of you.

Maybe that was your problem?

Ransom couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so not pissed off, at everything that moved.

So, there were eggs all over the stove and his socks were sticking to kitchen floor. He couldn’t help but be amused, as he began to prepare breakfast and assign both nephews tasks to get them out of his hair.

By the time the table was set, orange juice was mostly spilled everywhere but in glasses and coffee was brewing. Ransom had eggs and bacon cooking and was working on toast. He knew both boys were back in the kitchen. He could feel their eyes on his back. Plus he saw their reflections in the stainless steel fridge. Your kitchen was large, top of the line with matching appliances and more hardwood floors.

Unable to even help himself, Ransom chucked bread in the toaster, which he in fact knew how to work. “How was last night? Your aunt said Tim from downstairs went out to dinner with you guys.”

Two noises of disgust and irritation filled the kitchen, warming his cold heart.

“Auntie said we don’t have to learn his name. He’s not important.”

Auntie said that? Two eyebrows rose. Maybe he’d have Auntie sit on his face when they went home.

“I’ve met lizards that’re more interesting than that guy.”

Clearly, that had come from the younger one and made Ransom blink, not that he disagreed with the sentiment.

“Don’t worry Holmes. They never last long after coming inside the apartment,” the other one assured him. “It’s why Chip wanted a big ole picture of himself in every room forever.”

“Oh yeah?” 

There was some wisdom in that. Every freaking room had a big portrait of the man watching, glaring, judging. It was like living with his family.

Your younger nephew chimed in. “Yeah, Chip says it’ll scare off weak willed men. Chip hated weak willed men…and turtlenecks.”

Was there anything that Chip didn’t hate?

When Ransom turned to both take the remaining bacon from the pan and stick it on the paper towels, he was greeted to not only both young boys watching him cook, shoulder to shoulder, obviously concerned about bacon situation, but you too. 

You stood back, leaning against the doorway. Your arms were crossed. You looked amused. You had on your fuzzy robe and didn’t seem to have garnered the attention of your nephews. “Wow…you do know how the toaster works?”

Ransom gave you a look that most people in your building would have considered incendiary. To you, it was more comparable to bedroom eyes. 

You hated him so much it hurt and couldn’t wait to hurt him some more.


End file.
